


The Many Beginnings of a Bard's Life

by Jana_C



Series: You'd think a bard would know when he's in love [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, WTF, anyway here we are: Lambert/Jaskier, at least for a little while, because Geralt doesn't deserve nice things, how the hell are here NO TAGS FOR THIS RELATIONSHIP??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28839243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jana_C/pseuds/Jana_C
Summary: Here is how it starts — there’s a bard who saves a witcher in a tavern and, later that same night, there’s a witcher who lets the bard die in a fight.It’s not pretty, and it’s not ideal, but this is how it starts.
Relationships: Lambert/Jaskier - Relationship, past/implied Geralt/Jaskier
Series: You'd think a bard would know when he's in love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114655
Comments: 14
Kudos: 165





	The Many Beginnings of a Bard's Life

**Author's Note:**

> So, I really love Lambert in the games, and I feel like he and Jaskier would get along swimmingly, and this is the result -- at first, this was going to be a single story, but things started to get too long, too complicated, and too complex, so I turned it into a series. If you're here for some Jaskier/Lambert cuteness, this is your gift.  
> The story goes on on the other stories I'm finishing up right now, and then all bets are off.

Here is how it starts — there’s a bard who saves a witcher in a tavern and, later that same night, there’s a witcher who lets the bard die in a fight.

It’s not pretty, and it’s not ideal, but this is how it starts.

X

Or maybe it starts like this: the thing with Jaskier is that no one really knows much about him — it’s one of the main reasons why he keeps talking everyone’s ears off all the time: if they’re sick of hearing your voice, they won’t ask you much, you know?

It’s a tried and true system, and it’s been working for many, many years now — specially when your favorite companion is a fucking witcher who thinks words are gold and so disperses them rarely and scarcely, as if he might run out. So, you know, Jaskier exists, and he is known, and people usually like him for a day, a night, an hour, and are glad to see him go when he finally leaves.

It’s no different with the witcher he’s traveled with for twenty two years — it took him longer, but he finally got sick of Jaskier and now he sure is glad to see him go.

Why the bard expected any different from him is a mystery not even he can hope to unravel, and, quite frankly, he doesn’t want to.

X

Or even further down the line, the beginning goes like this: there’s a noble family who desperately wanted a child, and would do anything to get it. They were not bad people — a little too proud, maybe, a little snobbish from time to time, but all in all, they were not worse than any other noble around, and a sight less terrible than scores of their peers.

The Viscount loved his wife very much and had no wish to bring a bastard into his home, or to remarry at all, but he did indeed need an heir, and so, against their better judgment, they asked for help from an unlikely source — a mage, not affiliated to the Brotherhood or any other gathering of any kind, but someone a friend of a friend mentioned to them as being discreet and effective in all sorts of manners. The couple, now with a little light of hope in their hearts, sought the mage out, and asked for his help, not caring that the matters this creature meddled in usually involved snuffing out lives and not bringing them forth, but he assured them it would be done, and so it was.

The Lady never asked how she came to carry a child so quickly after trying for so many years unsuccessfully, and the Viscount was bursting with happiness for the whole nine months.

The pregnancy came to term, and the birth was as safe as it could be.

They had a small, pink cheeked child, with the bluest of eyes and the darkest of hairs, and they called him Julian.

Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove.

For a fortnight, the couple was walking on clouds, and the whole household felt it in their bones — their happiness seemed to seep into the land, and for the whole fifteen days there was sun shining and birds singing, and for the whole fifteen nights there was a bright moon and stars twinkling in a cloudless sky.

On the sixteenth day, the mage returned.

He had been paid a handsome sum, you see, to bring the child into the world, and, as the couple never asked any questions, he dealt with the matter as he saw fit.

The problem with people who are good is that they never quite take into account how evil others can be — but the Pankratz family was not so good as all that, and they knew, as soon as the mage set foot on their land again, that trouble was on the way.

The mage had made a deal, you see, with the Fae.

It wasn’t the first such deal he had made with the Folk, but it would certainly be the last.

The Fae sometimes trade children — it is their custom and no one knows why. Perhaps to raise a human child of their own, perhaps to kill it in cold blood while their own offspring is loved and adored in a household they will one day destroy, but it is what they do. However, as the child in question could not be taken away in exchange for the favor given (as the mage had done many times before), this mage thought to outwit the Fae and deceive them.

If the problem with good people is not seeing the evil in others, then the problem with evil people is not realizing they are not as smart as they think they are.

The Pankratz family was told to stay away from their son’s room that night — the mage would take care of everything, and no Changeling would take the place of their child, and no Fae would seek retribution for what he had done, for the mage’s plan was a simple one: he would lie in wait, and kill changeling and Fae alike when the Folk came to collect their usual price.

The mage didn’t count on motherly love and a father’s sense of duty to their children, however, for the Pankratzs did not wait in their rooms, as they were told, but came out in the night, and burst into the room when a terrible shriek was heard — their child, their precious child, was unharmed and whole on his bed, but a small creature, painfully thin and pale, beautiful in a way that only non-human things can be, was slain and thrown on the floor.

The mage, disturbed by the screams of the Viscountess and the sword of the Viscount, was hit in the head by a terrible spell, and he, too, was no more.

In that moment, two fathers and two mothers stared at the child wailing in the crib, knowing, in their hearts, that he was _theirs_.

Mothers love like only mothers can, and that is what saved Julian on that fateful night.

The Viscountess saw the small Fae child on the floor and went to him, pale hands reaching out in the gentlest of touches, tears streaming down her face.

“We would have loved him,” she said, eyes turning to the being with eyes as red as fire and as filled with pain as only one who lost their child can be, “We would have raised him, and loved him as our own.”

Maybe it was the words she said, or maybe the parents of the murdered infant could sense the truth in her heart more than in her words, but the taller of the two knelt by the Viscountess and didn’t pull away when she squeezed the being’s hand, and together they cried for the child the mage had killed.

“Please, don’t take him from us,” the Viscount pleaded, afraid to go to his son and have him snatched away, “Don’t make his mother suffer as that mother is suffering now,” he continued and the second Fae in the room stared and stared for a long time before kneeling and gathering the small, lifeless bundle off the floor, and helping his companion to her feet, and making the body of the mage turn to ash with a wave of his hand.

The Pankratz couple waited with baited breath as the other couple of parents in the room stared at their son, and a shiver of fear ran down their spines when the Fae spoke an enchantment while touching little Julian on the forehead and chest, right above his heart — curse or blessing, no one could tell.

“He is ours too, but we won’t take what we cannot give back,” the Fae spoke as one, for without a child of their own to leave behind, they could not take the human one that was left.

Whatever spell the mage had cast to kill the Fae child must have been powerful, and very, very dark, to drain the life of one from such a powerful race, and the parting words from the Fae parents were that Julian would never be subjected to such a pain as his counterpart had suffered, and neither would his parents suffer again - neither of them, be it Fae or human.

As the day dawned, rain fell for the first time in Julian’s short, but already eventful, life. For a week, the Viscountess could only sleep for minutes at a time, refusing to let go of her child, and her husband was always only a step behind her, a haunted look in his eyes.

As time went on, the couple started to realize that the mage would not be returning — neither would Julian’s other set of parents. Whatever their blessing (for they were now convinced it had indeed been a blessing) would not take their child from them, and from that day on, peace had returned to their house.

Julian was an active, if sometimes a little too mischievous, child.

He loved running, and riding, and climbing trees; he loved music and dance, and stories most of all. He would beg for sweets from his mother, and books from his father, would charm anyone within hearing distance, and babble himself to sleep with the stories he would make up to keep himself entertained.

There wasn’t a hidey-hole he couldn’t get into, and if there was any manner of creature around, he would find it and try to befriend it — cats, dogs, wolves and, a certain time that almost brought his mother to her death, a warg he mistook for a stray dog.

All in all, Julian was maybe a little overactive, and over-imaginative, but a good, common, _normal_ child.

And then he fell off a horse when he was six, and broke his neck.

It was a clean break, the healer said when he was brought in to look into the little boy. He suffered naught at all, the old man went on, trying in vain to console both mother and father.

There was a good chance the Viscountess would have jumped right at the man’s neck at his words, for she was furious the stupid old man would dare to think that such knowledge would calm a mother’s heart, but for the fact that right at that moment, Julian sat up in bed — blue eyes a little darker than they had been, a little more jewel-toned than before - wide-eyed and scared.

That was when the Pankratzs discovered that Julian was a little more special than they had thought, and also that the blessing on that fateful night was as much a blessing as it was a curse.

Julian could die, that much they had seen with their own eyes, but he would not _stay dead_.

Upon his return to the land of the living, the little boy told his parents and the healer he had been taken — a place full of light and dance and motion, colors and sounds such as he had never heard or seen before, and in that place, his _other_ parents told him he was blessed with a Fae’s lifespan. He could be killed, but as long as he wasn’t cursed as his fae-brother had been, he would always, always come back.

They had lost a son, the Fae couple told him, giving him a small necklace for him to keep, they _would not_ allow another to pass from existence simply because he happened to be human.

They would be careful from then on, the Pankratzs decided. No more putting himself at risk, no more running around in horses or trying to befriend wargs, because, as safe as he could be from death itself, who is to say a dark, evil mage wouldn’t come around and try to mimic Julian’s gifts to their own benefit? Just a short few years earlier, wasn’t there a mage killing little girls just because they happened to be born under a moon he considered evil? Who’s to say they wouldn’t do the same to their precious Julian?

The healer was sworn to secrecy under penalty of death, and so it was that no one knew about Julian’s, and later on in life, Jaskier’s, secret.

Until he went and died in front of a witcher, that is.

After that, the warg was most definitely out of the bag.

* * *

“My dear sir,” rings out a man’s — or rather, a scrap of a man’s — voice. “Did I just hear you deny to pay the full amount of the contract to a person who’s rendered you a service? Certainly not,” the tone is gentle, but it does invite challenge, and all Lambert can do is shake his head.

Every so often, someone, somewhere, will try and stiff him in their payments for his service. Even more rarely, someone, somewhere, will try and help him, but if they are expecting a favor out of it, as they usually are, then they’ll be shit out of luck.

Lambert does not ask for help, and if they offer it of their own free will, then that’s their problem, and he won’t waste his time in helping them back.

“What do you mean, the proof is lacking? That is the head of a drowner, is it not? What did you expect him to do, bring you all heads of all drowners in the nest?” the man’s voice is rising as the discussion by the bar progresses, and Lambert decides to chime in and spare the man the shame of being kicked out of a bar — or at least, he _would_ , if the bartender were reasonable, and not the idiot he proves himself to be when he next opens his mouth.

“Why, milord, it’s not like it’s a person, it’s just a witcher, and you can’t trust their word for shit.”

What happens next is something that Lambert will remember for many, many years, as the man defending his honor _vaults_ over the counter and socks the bartender right on the nose.

As a crazy man can always find a friend, soon the tavern has broken into a free for all, with the high voice of the first brawler starting an angry chorus of that infernal song Geralt managed to get his bard to compose for him, and it all ends with Lambert receiving his full payment, and a free room and supper on the house for the next two nights — not that he will take that, because he isn’t crazy. He knows that as soon as the blood of these fools has cooled down a little, they won’t be nearly as kind towards a witcher as they have been, so he takes his coin, and his supper, and hightails out of the tavern to look for his horse and get out of the crazy village.

“Why, our dashing hero is already leaving?” a teasing voice asks from a dark side in the stables, and Lambert closes his eyes, asking for patience, because he can recognize the voice of the man defending his payment back in the tavern.

Just as he thought — he’ll probably ask for a favor, and then he’ll have to punch the man.

Humans are so much more trouble than they are worth.

“Seeing as those people will get their wits about them as soon as the ale has done its job, yeah, I’m leaving.”

“Eh, it makes sense,” the man answers, voice casual, and Lambert glances at him to see he is looking at the tavern with an almost pitying look, “And Tolfdir is usually such a reasonable man, I’ve no idea why he tried to deny payment like that. I should make him apologize.”

The witcher snorts, and looks at the man again.

“How? Are you going to punch him until he says he’s sorry?”

“No, I would ask politely, and if he refused to see reason, _then_ I’d punch him.”

Lambert laughs quietly at that, but decides to cut to the chase — it’s getting late in the day, and he has no desire to look for a place to set up camp in the dark.

“So, what do you want?”

“Excuse me?” the stranger says, looking slightly offended.

“You helped me, I’m assuming you want something back. What do you want?”

It’s the man’s turn to scoff then, and he shakes his head briefly.

“Nothing. Just came to see you off so none of the men from the tavern decide to see if they can chase you out a little more violently. I started the fight, at any rate, you shouldn’t have to deal with my mess.”

“So you want… nothing?”

“No.”

“At all?”

“No.”

“You helped me out of the goodness of your heart?” he sounds so incredulous saying it out loud that it startles a laugh out of the stranger who started a fight for him in a bar.

“That and I don’t like it when people insult other people after they’ve done them a service. Being a witcher is your work, not something they can use as a name to call you as if it’s wrong. Also, I was bored, starting a fight always helps a little.”

Lambert can only stare, because this is not the kind of thing that happens to him — to Geralt, the _White Wolf_ , sure; or Eskel, always gentle, and kind, and _nice_ ; but him? Hot blooded, rude, dark humored Lambert? Not even once in his life did this happen before.

“This is when you either say ‘Thank you’, and then leave, or, if you’re uncomfortable using your words, you can just nod slightly at me, get on your horse and leave dramatically. Either one is perfectly acceptable.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” the man replies frowning.

“Are you staying here? They are not going to be happy with you either, you know.”

“Oh, it’ll all work out in the end. But I am going to be leaving soon, I lied before — I took the opportunity of the end of the fight to get my things and scatter before they noticed I was gone.”

Only then does Lambert notices a dark, slim horse behind the man, all packed and ready to go, apparently. It’s a good horse too, well treated and muscled, not the underfed, sad things travelers usually have to count on.

“It’s going to get dark soon, will you be okay on your own?” he asks, despite telling himself that he _does not care_ what happens to this man at all.

“Oh, I’ll be fine. I know the roads around here like the palm of my hand. I grew up here, just came home for a few months, but it’s time for me to leave again, or people will start talking,” the man explains, getting on his horse, and slowly leaving the stables.

Lambert follows and keeps the pace the man’s horse is setting, he isn’t even sure why.

He doesn’t even know if they’ll go in the same direction, he should head North soon, before Winter hits at full force and he can’t get home.

“Talking about how insane you are?”

“Worse,” he answers with a shiver, “About marriage. And children. My parents are fine with me, I have no idea why everyone in this damn family think they’re allowed an opinion, you know?”

“I don’t, actually.”

“Hm,” the man answers, and then starts laughing for no apparent reason.

Maybe Lambert should leave the guy to his own devices sooner rather than later — the longer he spends with him, the more insane the man appears to be.

They keep each other’s company for a few hours, as the sky gets darker and darker, and the man makes noise about setting up camp — Lambert doesn’t quite like the idea, something around this place is making his medallion hum quietly on his chest, but then again, they’re in a forest said to be inhabited by all sorts of creatures, not all of them deadly, and even fewer truly evil.

They set up camp, and go to sleep with minimal conversation — his companion seems to get sadder the longer they are together, as they arrange a fire and divide the supper Lambert had wrapped back in the tavern.

Sleep comes to him easily, but he does wake up in a blink when there’s growling nearby.

Here’s the thing when you travel on your own, or only with other witchers: you forget how fragile, and how slow, humans are.

It doesn’t take him very long to dispatch the pack of wolves and a few wargs who came to try and get their supper in their camp — but it is long enough that the poor man who helped him to be attacked by one of the animals, he isn’t even sure which one, and have his throat ripped out.

It is not a pretty sight.

Far from being the first person Lambert has seen die, this one death feels strange, though, because this man helped him.

If Lambert hadn’t been in that tavern, if he hadn’t talked to the guy, encouraged him to keep him company, hell, if Lambert hadn’t felt the need to feel _grateful_ , this man would still be alive.

This is just wrong, he thinks, slightly despaired.

He should bury the body, or burn the man’s remains — then he remembers the guy said he had family nearby, he should maybe bring the man’s body back to his parents. He will probably be run out of town again, with pitchforks and stones, torches and spades, but at least he’ll be doing the right thing.

Resolved to take this course of action, he goes to the man’s pack, and everything becomes a thousand times worse when he realizes just who the man is: Jaskier, the Bard. Jaskier, the _Master Bard_. Jaskier, _fucking Geralt of Rivia’s Bard_.

Fuck.

He killed his brother’s best friend.

How is he going to explain this to Geralt? Fuck, how is he going to explain this to _Vesemir_?

Geralt walks all over the continent with the bard for two fucking decades, and the bard is fine, but one _night_ in Lambert’s company, and the guy is dead.

Fuck.

He drops journals and pens and letters back into the man’s pack, and turns around, looking at the man he might as well have killed with his own hands, and then he stops — something feels strange. There is a lot of blood still, but the gash on the man’s neck is no longer there. As he comes closer to the body, it actually doesn’t look as terrible now, there isn’t even a cut on it, the skin is as unblemished as it was before the attack. Slowly, he draws his silver sword again, and stares, ready to strike, if the man should do something weird.

Maybe this is not Geralt’s bard, but some creature who took possession of the man’s things. Just as Lambert is beginning to think he should just stab the thing a few more times, just to be on the safe side, the man sits up, gasping, eyes impossibly wide.

“ _Fuck_ , every fucking time this hurts,” the guy curses a few more times, hands going to his throat, and sighing in relief at finding it intact.

By the way he is dealing with the situation, something tells Lambert this isn’t the first time this has happened.

“I’d like you to notice that one, I haven’t attacked you at all; two, I can touch silver without getting burned; and three, your medallion isn’t humming, which means I’m as human as you are.”

“I’m not human,” Lambert answers, without lowering his sword.

“Oh well, I’m more human than you, then.” The man keeps staring, and Lambert tries to think of a way to end this impasse — asking the man what he is seems stupid, if he is anything evil or harmful he won’t just answer because a fucking witcher asked him. Two points the bard — if he is indeed the bard — made actually hold truth to them: he not only didn’t attack Lambert, he _helped_ him; and his medallion is quiet as anything now that the wargs are dead.

Finally he lowers his sword, right in front of the man’s nose — he holds back a scoff as the man’s eyes go cross-eyed staring at the tip. When the bard looks back at him, Lambert raises an eyebrow, and wiggles the sword a little.

Muttering about damn distrustful witchers, the bard touches the blade, even going so far as making his fingers walk on it, all the while staring Lambert down.

“Happy?” he asks, finally pushing the sword to the side and getting up, stretching his back and neck as he goes, “Go on, ask away, I know you want to,” he says, while toeing his sleeping sack, which is now covered in blood, and making a face.

“So, you’re the bard?”

“I’m _a_ bard, yes,” For the first time, a note of annoyance creeps into the man’s voice, and Lambert narrows his eyes at him, finally setting his sword down, and taking a seat on the log he had arranged before, making himself as nonthreatening as possible. The bard stares for a few seconds, finally dropping down on the other side of the fire Lambert is now rekindling, but doesn’t say a word.

“So, you’re Geralt’s bard,” he tries again, and gets an irritated huff as his answer.

“I am not Geralt’s _anything_. I _was_ his traveling companion, and the one who kept him fed and clean most times, seeing as his people skills make the ones from the people in the village we just left look like noble ladies’. But apparently, I’m not worth the trouble, so, no, sir, I am _not_ Geralt’s bard. I’m Jaskier.”

“The bard,” Lambert completes, just because he can — and because the rant was funny.

He isn’t really afraid, now that the initial shock of the man dying and not-dying on him so fast — he can handle himself in a fight against this man, and if he’s dangerous, he wouldn’t have walked around Geralt for twenty years, now would he?

Certainly not even _Geralt_ is that stupid?

“Yes, the bard. Jaskier, the _Master_ bard, thank you very much, I didn’t just pick up a lute and decide to start singing, I am formally trained and graduated from Oxenfurt. It’s not like I’m a no-name little troubadour your _friend_ picked up by the side of the road.”

“You talk a lot,” Lambert observes, and gets a small rock thrown at him for his trouble.

“I did not ask for your company. I did not make you follow me. If my talking annoys you, the road is right where we left it!”

The indignation alone would be enough to keep Lambert entertained for hours, but the fact that he does not find all the talking annoying helps the fact that he does not leave — indeed, he is very much decided to stay with the bard at least until he finds out what Geralt did to set the man in a snit, and also, what happened just a few minutes ago.

“And leave you here to be eaten by another pack of wargs?”

“Hey! The only reason I was as deeply asleep as I was is because you were here! I thought witchers were light sleepers, I got used to some warning if danger is approaching!” he stares at Lambert a few seconds, letting out a deliberate breath before going on, “I would have survived anyway. Or, you know, I’d’ve come back.”

“Is that what happened back there? You came back?”

And with a sigh, Jaskier tells him his story.

X

“And you walked around with Geralt for twenty-two years, and didn’t die even _once_?” Lambert finally asks, as the sun is starting to creep up across the sky — the fire is still going, and they haven’t gotten a single wink of sleep between them, but damn it if it wasn’t worth it for the story telling alone.

The contents of it were quite amazing too.

“Pfft, I died _plenty_. I died three times in our first year together _alone_. Every time I go there, my Fae-parents give me something to bring back,” he raises both hands then, a ring in every finger, some of them holding two or three, “So you see, the not dying wasn’t an issue. I died plenty. He just never noticed,” the bard finishes with a shrug.

And, the thing is that Lambert likes to tease his brothers a _lot_. He is an absolute asshole with a short fuse and no patience, but, in his own way, he does love the men who trained him, and later on with him, and regard him as one of their _own_. He respects them even.

But this? How could Geralt be _this_ stupid? This unobservant?

“Are you sure you have no more magic? Maybe you’re concealed. Fae are good at concealing things.”

“I’m completely human, Lambert,” the bard replies, using the name he’s learned only hours before as if they are long time friends, “I have no powers, or enhancements, or anything. The first time I went to their realm, my parents there explained things to me, but I was too little. As I got older, they managed to explain things a bit better, and the truth is that the only power I have is coming back. It’s a double edged sword — a blessing for the two of them, who lost their child and never got one back to raise; and a curse for my human parents, because the thing they wanted most was an heir, and me being as I am, it cannot happen. I haven’t aged in over a decade, I don’t even know if I _can_ get a woman pregnant. For all my philandering, not even once was I accused of being the father of any child. I’m not even truly immortal — I _die_ , it just doesn’t stick.”

“Are you sure Geralt didn’t know? It seems so… stupid.”

“Don’t I know it,” he replies with a small sigh, pulling his pack towards him, and digging out some bread and honey, which he proceeds to share in equal parts, offering the second, slightly bigger half, to the witcher, “At first I just didn’t know how to say anything, I mean, you don’t go around just telling people you can’t stay dead, because they might run off and tell someone dangerous, so I waited to see if I’d be allowed to stick around. I figured I couldn’t be around humans for very long, and I was lonely — after Oxenfurt, that was the first time I was truly on my own, and the one thing my parents asked of me when I told them I wanted to be a traveling bard was to not get involved with someone who could endanger me, and that ruled out all humans, basically — at least in a long term capacity. Then Geralt came along, and who could be more trustworthy than a witcher?”

“Wasn’t he called the _Butcher of Blaviken_ back then?” Lambert inquiries, mouth full of bread, and Jaskier can only shrug.

“I never said I had the best of judgment. It seemed a good idea at the time,” he shrugs again before going on, “After a while it became awkward to bring it up, and he has so many trust issues, I started to fret that maybe he would see it as a betrayal, so I decided to just wait and see — at some point, I was sure, he would notice I was _dead_ , and then, when I came back, I could tell him, and he wouldn’t be angry because his best friend wasn’t dead anymore, so, in comparison, it would be a good thing, you know?”

“The scary thing is, I can actually see the sense in what you said,” Lambert answers, looking slightly disturbed, “But he never noticed?”

“He never did,” Jaskier confirms, again with sadness written all over his face, “I was _truly_ scared a few times — the djinn most of all, because it took almost a full day for the spell to work its course and kill me — but either Geralt thought he was in the company of the luckiest human to ever walk the continent, or he just wasn’t concerned enough about me dying to check a little more closely when I was injured.”

There’s a part of Lambert, the one who will always be the youngest of the wolves, the one who worshiped Geralt and Eskel beyond all reason as a small child, who tries to raise a little protest at what the bard is saying, but truth of the matter is that he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know how Geralt didn’t notice that his friend _died_ at least eight times while in his company. He doesn’t know what kind of witcher Geralt is anymore, because he has always been strange, but the last few years, he’s become stranger and stranger, and all told, Lambert doesn’t know him enough to judge what caused this blindness.

Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he thought Jaskier would tell him when he was ready. Maybe he trusted Jaskier’s ability to keep himself safe. Maybe he had lost too much touch with how humans worked and thought all of them could heal death-like injuries with a song or two — he truly doesn’t know.

“Well, it’s a good thing you left him anyway. Pretty Boy is getting old, and sooner or later, you’d have to take up his witchering to keep him around, and he’d have to become a bard, and that would not work in the least. Man can’t carry a tune to save his life.”

“He can’t carry a conversation either — although, that’s not fair, he _did_ save our lives from the elves in Posada just by talking.”

Lambert scoffs as he gets up, starting to break camp.

“I thought he slaughtered all the elves? Isn’t that how the song goes?”

“Oh please,” Jaskier gripes back, getting his things together too, while tossing his sleeping things, now mangled ans bloody, into the fire to burn, “As if I was going to tell all humans around that the elves were fine and healthy, it’d be a bloodbath. Let them think they’re all dead, then people will leave them alone.”

“You’re a very strange human,” the witcher says again, but this time, Jaskier smiles at him in return.

“Oh, my second set of parents would undoubtedly be proud,” the bard tells him with a small bow, making Lambert laugh again.

“Where were you going? Before I came around, I mean.”

“Away from Nilfgaard’s insane troops, mostly,” the bard answers with a shrug, “Why, want some company?”

“I don’t know, can you handle the life beside an actual witcher, who won’t go around saving princesses and defeating elves and devils?”

“Oh, I’m sure I can handle some good, old-fashioned witchering,” Jaskier answers him, starting to break camp at earnest.

“It can be dangerous,” Lambert tells him, only half joking in his warning — he’s never done this before. He would team up with other witchers from time to time, some of them more than once, and more frequently, but he’s never traveled with a human before.

“Oh, if I died, I’d just come back, and it wouldn’t even be to haunt you.”

At the flippant remark, Lambert can’t help but laugh out loud, setting the last of this things into his pack and on his horse.

Jaskier does the same a few minutes later, and they set off at an easy pace — with the full payment of his last contract, Lambert is in no immediate need of another, and they take a course veering slightly North. Summer is upon them, and should they keep to the slow pace Jaskier seems to enjoy, it’ll be a long time before they go North enough for Lambert to be home in time for winter.

Traveling with Jaskier is nothing like Lambert has experienced before — most nights the bard insists they find an inn or a tavern, and once there, he very much sings for their supper, and once or twice even for a room, free of charge. Getting paid after contracts becomes easier, having the other man negotiate for him, and all he asks in returns are details about the hunt so he can compose, or correct something in things he’s already working on.

Not even once does he ask for a cut of the pay, or anything other than companionship and an ear to bend, and quite frankly, Lambert has no problem providing either — he does not enjoy being alone, and the life of a witcher is hard enough as it is.

It’s slightly scary that the further north they go, the more he wants to ask Jaskier to come with him to Kaer Morhen, or at the very least, to meet up again come spring.

He feels like he is stealing something from Geralt, though, and it brings him mixed feelings — on the one hand, _good_. Geralt shouldn’t get to have all the fame, the company and the praise, and leave the rest of them to trudge in his wake; but on the other, quite honestly, how is the man _surviving_ without Jaskier? Lambert has barely known him for a month, and already, the Path seems to grow darker just by the prospect of going at it alone after being in his company.

After a particularly grisly contract, Lambert is expressing all of his discontentment with his line of work by chopping wood for a fire — they are too fucking far away from anywhere remotely civilized for an in to be found, and Jaskier suggested they should just up and leave after getting paid, their staying in the miserable little village was more likely to cause harm than good.

Fucking useless parents who couldn’t care for their kids properly, fucking hedge-witches messing with spells they knew nothing about, leaving him to have to deal with a fucking apparition of a six year old child who didn’t even understand he was dead, let alone that it was wrong to keep luring people to play with him.

Fucking fuck.

“You know, if you drop the ax, I think there’s a good chance you’d go faster just pulling the branches apart with your bare hands,” a voice startles him, and he cleans the sweat from his forehead with a low growl.

“Don’t creep up on me like that, I could’ve hurt you.”

“Eh, I’d heal,” Jaskier says, and offers him a skin of fresh water from the stream they are camping by, “You okay? I haven’t seen you like this in the whole time we’ve been traveling.”

The way the man asks, his voice hesitant, fidgeting slightly as if ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger sets Lambert a bit more on edge — and the thing is, he is not a private person, he doesn’t want to become one now, and he has no interest in sparing people’s feelings by ruminating on his pain on his own. He has always shared everything with everyone around him, no matter how ugly — it’s why he clashes so much with both Vesemir and Geralt, who think you should just grin and bear it, while Lambert is more of a let the wound explode and cover everyone in pus kind of witcher.

So he talks.

From all he gathered from what little Jaskier talked about Geralt, his brother wasn’t any more open with the man than he is with his fellow wolves, and it makes him feel strangely glad that he can give something to the bard that Geralt failed to provide.

“Contracts involving kids just sit wrong with me. It’s not right, being that small, suffering that much. They are _dead_ , you know, they should get to rest, and not… _that_.”

“Well, you helped him in the end. He’ll rest and go to… whatever normal people go when they die, and you made that happen. I get that you’re mad, but you did exactly what you could do to make things as good as they can be.”

“I know, I just… this life gets to me. And most of the time, I can deal because it’s handling assholes who brought their doom to themselves, or horrible creatures who are little more than diseased dogs, but then something like this comes along, and— I fucking hate it,” he ends with a bitter little laugh, and Jaskier just takes the ax he is still holding from his hands and pulls him to the camp they made, pushing him on a log, and bringing out a bottle of wine they’ve been saving for a few days now, taking a seat beside him, and offering him the drink once it’s open.

“I was that boy’s age when Vesemir took me to Kaer Morhen,” he starts quietly, feeling depressed all of a sudden, Jaskier’s presence by his side comforting in a very sad way, “Sometimes I think it’d be better if I hadn’t made it through the trials. This is not…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, taking another long swallow from the bottle, and then another before passing it back to Jaskier, “It’s like they turned me into something that kills and has no other use, and if I complain, the others think I’m wrong. I fucking hate it,” he mutters angrily, drinking deeply again.

“I was that boy’s age when I died the first time,” Jaskier tells him, and Lambert turns to look at the man, watching as he stares into the flames in front of them, “I had an army of servants, you know, noble born, and the only child my parents would ever get, I was precious to them in a way that only single children can be, and I found a way to get on the fastest horse they had, and fell down, and I broke my neck,” the bard takes a long swig from the bottle, and Lambert can’t look away — for all that the man talks incessantly, and for all that he had told him his story, he never talks about the actual experience of dying, perhaps too respectful of it to joke around, or mention it in passing, “It was quick, and mostly painless — one second I was soaring through the fields, the next I was in this… strange place, with these strange beings telling me I had come for a visit sooner than they’d expected,” he stops then, looks at Lambert with a strange smile on his lips, “They tried to explain to me what was happening, but I was so fucking scared. I just wanted to come home, and see my mother, and my father, and no matter how many times they told me I was alright, that I could go, I didn’t believe them. I was _terrified_. Then they gave me my first pendant,” he pulls the small thing from around his neck and turns it in the light of the fire, “and I was suddenly home, with an old man pronouncing that my death was quick. It took me a few years to fully grasp what the _other_ parents meant when they said I was cursed and blessed at the same time, because after that first death, things weren’t the same. _I_ wasn’t the same. _My parents_ weren’t the same. They’d look at me and see everything they had dreamed of, everything they hoped for, a child, a male son, an heir, smart and handsome, and charming and talented, and they had absolutely no use for me whatsoever, because they knew it would put me in danger. And yet, their love never wavered. They never expected me to be anything other than what I had to offer, and even now, all they do is look happy when I come home, even though my mother is going grey, and my father’s hair is white as snow, because all they want from me, all they need, is for me to be myself, and that is the only path I’m expected to walk. So I tell you what,” he says then, turning on the log so he has one leg on each side, and Lambert mimics him a moment later, looking bemused, “I’ll be your friend. And I’ll expect nothing from you but your friendship back,” he says, taking the necklace from his neck, and putting it over Lambert’s head, patting it where it sits on the man’s throat, “So, if you want a vacation from witchering, let us head to the coast, or to the mountains, or whatever, and I’ll sing for our supper, and you won’t have to walk the Path, at least for a while.”

And honestly, this is more than Lambert can deal with as things stand right now — he’s never had _anything_. His father never loved him, and his mother was too busy trying to keep herself alive to care. Vesemir had other witchers, and all the ones who were trained with him were dead — his brothers now are people who were already old when he was _born_ , and he’s been so alone, for so fucking _long_. He doesn’t have great tales of hunts, or mysteries to unveil, or great quests he’s had to do — he is a witcher, and he kills monsters, and he does it for coin, and he’s good at it, but he certainly doesn’t love it, and he certainly isn’t happy that this is his _only_ lot in life.

But having this man right now, this creature who can’t die, this being who offers his friendship to someone just because he _can_ , who helps witchers and trusts them with his life — maybe this is his something good to have on this miserable life, on this miserable Path.

“Would you hate me if I kissed you now?” he asks, quietly, for once in his life trying to ask for permission, because if anyone in this world deserves it, it’s Jaskier.

“I would like to make it clear that I didn’t give you the pendant to seduce you,” Jaskier tells him, and Lambert freezes for a half a second, thinking he’s being rejected, but then Jaskier’s pale, thin fingers caress the scars on his face, and he closes his eyes, soothed in a way he can’t remember ever being.

Jaskier’s lips taste of the wine they’ve been drinking, and it’s nothing but a caress, kind and gentle, asking for nothing more than Lambert is willing to give. Never in a million years would he admit this out loud, but it’s exactly what he needs.

When they pull apart, Jaskier smirks at him.

“Did that improve your mood?”

Lambert scoffs, and shoves the bard with one hand, while his other keeps the man from going any further than a breath away.

“I could think of a few things who would do that job a lot better.”

They laugh, and it’s absolutely fine.

For the first time in his life, Lambert feels alright with the thought of being a witcher.

X

Trouble finds them, because of course it does, and it comes in the form of Nilfgaard, because of course it does, and it is all Geralt’s fault, because of course it is.

Well, maybe not — if he were feeling at all generous, Lambert would say that it is actually Nilfgaard’s fault for having an insane sorceress coupled with an insane ruler, but he is not feeling generous, because _Jaskier is missing_. He is missing, and they were supposed to meet three hours ago in a tavern, and Jaskier _is not here_ and _no one has seen him_ , and there are Nilfgaard’s soldiers sniffing around and looking for an ashen haired girl (Geralt’s child-surprise), a purple eyed sorcerer (Geralt’s witch) and the bard they call Jaskier (Lambert’s, however _former_ Geralt’s, bard). So, you see, it’s all Geralt’s fault.

The situation doesn’t look good, most of all because Lambert isn’t good with subtle. He is good at killing things - simple and easy, you keep poking at the thing trying to kill you until it dies or you do. See? Easy. Uncomplicated. Very much _unlike_ the situation he finds himself in now, because should by some miracle the soldiers haven’t yet heard that Jaskier was indeed in this shit hole until the night before, at the very least, then he doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he _is here_.

Here, and supposed to meet Lambert three hours ago, and, fuck, he is dead, isn’t he?

Jaskier is dead.

The soldiers found him, and killed him, and Melitele’s tits, the torture. Jasker couldn’t tell them anything, because he doesn’t _know_ anything, and, right, Jaskier dying isn’t all that much of a problem, but he isn’t _immortal._ They are going to torture the guy, and the man can’t stand pain for shit.

It’s going to be horrible, and what is he supposed to do, damn it?

He is so close to losing it and killing all the soldiers — maybe all the villagers too, just to be on the safe side — he almost misses the slip of a girl who comes to him where he is sitting, wild-eyed and scary, at the corner of the tavern. She pulls at his sleeve, and doesn’t even flinch when he growls at her.

“Mister, you should go to the washer woman. Your clothes are all stinky.”

It’s so unexpected he has to blink twice just to make sure he isn’t hallucinating the girl in front of him.

“What?” he asks in bewilderment.

“My mama is a good washer woman, she can handle all kinds of fabrics, she can. Even silk. Or leather that has color. She could wash your clothes, and it would only cost you a few coins.”

The girl blinks at him very meaningfully, even though he has no idea why, and then turns around and exits the tavern, leaving a very confused witcher in her wake.

Silk.

Silk and colored leather.

Fuck everything, Jaskier isn’t dead after all.

Not wanting to cause trouble to the washer woman, he leaves the tavern and wanders around the tiny market a bit, locating the outskirts where she most likely lives.

It’s a small village, there’s only one house with clean laundry enough to be the washer woman’s, and when he enters the house quietly, and is immediately attacked by an armful of bard, he guesses he has the right place.

“Those fuckers were _everywhere_ , and I couldn’t get to the tavern, and I thought you might leave without me, but I didn’t want to risk it! I mean, _the torture,_ Lambert. Have you thought about that? What they could do?”

In those blue eyes he sees the exact same thing he was thinking earlier — torture with an unkillable target.

He pulls the man closer against his chest, and closes his eyes, breathing in Jaskier’s scent, and swallowing hard — no Nilfgaardian is going to take his bard away from him, it’s just not going to happen.

It took him this long to find someone who would actually tolerate his presence, and who seemed to even enjoy it. Someone who stood by him even when he was being an asshole, which was most of the time. A war that doesn’t even concern him — or Jaskier — is not taking that from him.

Only when they pull apart he notices the washer woman and the tiny girl, who is giggling behind her mother’s clothes.

“Thanks,” he tells her, trying to make his tone as gentle as possible — it’s not a lot, but it seems to do the trick, as she smiles at him with a small nod.

“It’s alright, master witcher. It’s no trouble at all,” she says, making Jaskier gasp in outrage.

“Oh, but my dear Faralda, you have no idea the _danger_ you saved me from! Your true kindness saved me from a fate more terrible than death! I swear upon my honor to sing a song of your bravery until the last of my days! The whole continent will hear the tale of the fair and brave woman, who saved this poor bard’s life from terrible danger!”

The woman laughs at Jaskier’s antics, surely thinking he is joking, but Lambert knows Jaskier enough by now to realize he probably means it, and will compose her song that night if he can.

Unwilling to take advantage of the woman’s kindness and fearful of putting her in danger for helping them, Lambert sneaks back into town, gets their things and horses, and meets Jaskier by the road, which they don’t take — it would be faster to ride out of town, but it would also look suspicious and draw attention to them. So they lead both horses through the woods, taking care not to make too much noise so Lambert can keep an eye out for trouble, but they make it safely to a clearing, far enough that they don’t fear any Nilfgaardian stragglers stumbling upon them at night.

Jaskier is still nervous, it’s clear to anyone with eyes. He is jumpy, and has clung to Lambert’s side ever since they settled down for the night, and that, more than anything, makes the witcher decide to bite the arrow, so to speak.

“Where were you planning to go for the winter?”

Jaskier bites his lower lip and bounces a leg uncertainly.

“I thought of going home, but twice in a year would make everyone suspect something is up, and I don’t want to worry my parents that much. There’s always a place for me at Oxenfurt, and I cared to spread a rumor about having a sorceress supply me with enchantments so I won’t look old, I should be okay on that front, but—”

“But not safe from Nilfgaard.”

“No, I don’t think I would be,” he replies quietly. “The worst part is that I have no part in it, I haven’t seen Geralt since last winter. It’s been almost a full year, I’ve no idea where he is, or if he has his child-surprise with him or not. I have to lay low until I can get word out that he and I aren’t… a unit anymore.”

“A unit?” Lambert repeats, humor coloring his tone.

“You know what I mean, that we are no longer traveling companions, or bard and muse, or whatever Nilfgaard thinks we are.”

“Friends,” Lambert says, staring at his bard as if he’s crazy, but Jaskier scoffs at the idea.

“Oh, we were never friends, my dear Lamb. I have no idea _what_ we were, what twenty years meant to your brother, but friendship was never on the table.”

“Did you—” he starts stops at the same breath, not knowing if he has a right to ask this, not knowing if he wants to hear the answer. It’s not a smart question to ask, but, well, he’s never been very bright anyway, “Did you love him? _Do_ you love him?” he finishes, and feels Jaskier freeze for a second, before laughing quietly, and turning his head so he can look into Lambert’s eyes as he answers.

“You know what? I have no idea,” he answers, still laughing, even as a few tears show up in his eyes.

“One would think a _bard_ would know if they love someone or not.”

Jaskier shrugs and pushes his shoulder against Lambert’s, not moving away when his movement doesn’t shake the witcher at all.

“I followed him because he was one hope in the middle of a lot of nothing. I’m human, but not. I have a noble lineage, but not. I had no friends, no idea on how to make one, and no idea on how to survive in this world alone. Geralt took me in, allowed me to stay, allowed me close, as much as he allows anyone at all, except, perhaps, Yennefer. And for a while, it was enough — he denied our friendship, and I took his words as jokes. He would bad-mouth my music and my singing, even as it was healing his reputation and earning him more money in every contract, and I took it as just a little friendly barter between comrades. We would fuck every so often, and when he left my bed for his own, I thought he just didn’t like sharing things. And then he met Yennefer, and things changed, because I started to realize that it wasn’t enough — not because it was little, I was fine with getting as little as I was because I thought it was all he had to give, but when he met her, I realized _it wasn’t_. He just didn’t care enough about _me_ to go that extra mile. After that, I was constantly hoping for more than he could give me, and I wasn’t enough, and suddenly, he wasn’t enough either. Then the dragon hunt happened, and I just…” he trails off with a small shrug, and Lambert wants to ask — Jaskier has alluded to that hunt more than once, and whatever happened in it was quite clearly bad, but he’ll share when he is ready, and he doesn’t want to pry.

“I don’t know if I _loved_ him. I know I don’t now,” Jaskier goes on quietly a few moments later, and Lambert startles, turning his head from the fire to look back at the man by his side, “This is different. This is… more. I don’t keep hoping for anything because I don’t have to — I don’t have to hope you’ll talk or seek me out. I don’t have to fear you’ll leave me behind because I trust you’ll stay. I don’t hope for more because you give me everything I could want, and—” he can’t finish the sentence because Lambert pulls him close and kisses him quiet, a thirst he never thought he would quench meeting its end in those words.

He was _wanted_ by Jaskier — not just as a shield, or a guard, or a protector, but as a person.

And all he had to do was be himself. He would die for this man, and not even care.

“I could go to Skellige, I guess. Nilfgaard won’t reach that far, and even though I fucking hate that swivel they call drinks over there, I can make it by singing,” he babbles on once they break apart, but Lambert is done with this discussion.

“Come with me to Kaer Morhen. We’ll head there now — Autumn is already past its middle, we can make good time on the way up with no snow, and we have more than enough to coin to get supplies for the both of us and Vesemir besides. We’ll lay low until spring, and then see where Nilfgaard is and how we’ll handle it. Worse comes to the worst, we’ll head to Skellige and set camp there until this fucking war is done, and Geralt’s bullshit isn’t falling on you. Come with me.”

There’s surprise in Jaskier’s eyes as he talks, but he blinks a few times as he shakes his head, laughing quietly, before pulling Lambert close and kissing him silly.

“I’ll come with you.”

It’s as simple as that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading it!!!


End file.
